Cradle of Wings
by Hurricane Amy
Summary: A one-shot drabble based on the prompt of April and Amelia bonding over their sons. Song credit: Cradle of Wings by Pam Armstrong and Susan Armstrong Lunn.


**Cradle of Wings**

 **A/N** : "I'd love a thing where April and Amelia bond over their babies." This is a prompt I received awhile ago, and I'm sorry I'm just getting around to it. ( Forever upset this didn't happen on the show. ) Also, this turned out going in the actual opposite direction of what I expected, but here you go. Bonding over mutual sorrow! Enjoy.

There's a place in your **heart** where you realize  
that the love for your child will _FOREVER_ abide.  
It's the **cradle of wings** where your little one lies –  
where the angel's _hallelujahs_ **HUSH** to _lullabies_.

The chapel had become her solace, a place of quiet and calm amidst the chaos. A place for reflection and comfort, for her boy was in a better place; one of peace and joy. A solitary candle flickered at the front of the room, and the childless mother sat two rows back, despite being the only one in attendance. Here she could fade. She could think without crying too much, without breaking apart. She remember those round cheeks, those eyes that never had the chance to open, the small breaths, the little squeaks. And she could dream of a happier time. Eyes closed, hands folded in her lap, Amelia's heart filled with a bittersweet serenity.

Four years, six minutes – that's exactly how old he would be today, and she could almost see him perfectly clearly in her mind. A little boy with wide eyes, bright and blue, and a weapon to get him out of any trouble. With jet black hair and freckles against his pale skin, he would be a near-clone of his father, and no matter how hard she would try, Amelia would never be able to say _no_ to him. He wouldn't just be walking by now, he would be running and telling stories and making up games. He would be swinging on the monkey bars and making up lies for how her valuables were broken. And soon, he would be starting school. He would be growing up, making friends, terrorizing teachers. So many firsts he would never have, for the pages of his story were ripped before the end – before they even began. Her perfect little boy – the most beautiful baby she had ever seen – born to bring life to the world that he could never have for himself. Her miracle. Her unicorn. And no matter how long he was gone, it never seemed to hurt any less.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the sound of the door opening behind her, nor the footsteps approaching. Not until words were spoken did her gaze shift up to meet the darkened eyes of April Kepner. "You're not sleeping in here, are you?"

"No," Amelia answered, picking at the skin around her cuticles. "I was praying."

"Oh." April's expression softened, "I'm sorry. Usually when I catch someone in here, it's an intern or someone trying to catch a few Z's without being caught. I didn't– I never took you for the religious type."

"I'm not," she replied, sucking in a deep breath. "Not usually."

"So what's different about today?"

Amelia shook her head, offering the worst fake smile she could manage and a half-shrug in return. "Nothing."

The response she got was the quirk of an eyebrow, clear discard for her lies. But April didn't dispute her. She had learned better than to pry by then. She wouldn't push. So she took a seat in the front pew, and there they sat, silent, praying, reflecting, thinking.

An eternity could have passed, or perhaps only minutes, but there was something about the company that seemed to help and unnerve all at once – a day for true dialectics. Another who understood her pain, who knew the depth of her loss, and she couldn't help but wonder if she should say something. It tugged at her heart that it seemed unfair for her to know the darkness of April's heart without showing off her own, but to speak of her son seemed impossible to anyone but Owen. Except Owen wasn't here. Owen was busy. And she had burdened him enough already, pulled him far enough down her rabbit hole. Maybe her and April could be comforts for each other, almost as she and Charlotte had been. The peace was gone, anyway, replaced with wistful sadness, and she knew just how that would go.

"My son would have been four today."

Well that got her attention. April turned, brows knit together, a crease forming across her forehead. "I'm sorry?"

"My son. It's his birthday today. May fifteenth at three fifty-six P.M. Four years old, and about thirty-nine minutes."

The other woman blinked, visibly surprised, but much more saddened by the revelation. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper as she asked, "What happened to him?"

Eyes locked straight ahead, instead of on the other, Amelia swallowed. "Anencephaly. He lived for forty-three minutes. I donated his organs. I got to hold him for a few minutes, and then they took him and they took him apart." Teeth clamped down on the inside of her cheek, gaze dropping to stare at fidgeting hands.

For a second, she thought she might hear those words again – the words she hated and dreaded; spoken of pity and a sadness most people could only imagine. What do you say to the crazy woman with the dead, brainless baby? But no apologies were issued. No _I'm sorry_ s to act as a cop-out, meant more to make the speaker feel better than anyone else.

"That… _sucks_." April's expression twisted into a sick frown. "What is wrong with this world? That murderers and rapists and child killers get to roam free and lead long lives, but innocent babies get these horrible diseases and die. Where's the justice in that?"

"There isn't any. It's all just random. Crap happens and people die. It's not fair or rational or _okay_. It's just life. And it's our job to try and keep that life for as many people as we can, which is ironic when we can't save the people we love the most."

"Tell me about it." April sighed, a churning in her gut for their shared losses. No condolences could ever be enough, no consolation. Every life she saved was for Samuel, every day she lived for him, and she could see it now looking at Amelia that the same was true for her. "What did you name him?"

"I called him my unicorn baby. Because he did magical things. He saved so many lives– so many babies." Amelia clicked her tongue, adding a second part she had never spoken aloud to anyone. The only others in the world who knew were Jake and Addison, and even that was only because they had visited his grave. They had seen it etched in stone. "But his name was Christopher Ryan. After my dad and his."

"That's a beautiful name."

"Thanks. So was– Samuel is a great name, too." She let out a breath, shifting forward to properly look at the redhead. "Hey, um– You're really into all this religion stuff, right?"

"Not as much anymore, but– Yeah. Yeah, I believe in God and in Jesus and the teachings of the Bible. Why?"

"I'm not really– Like I said, I'm not really– I need to believe he's somewhere, you know? I don't know if that's Heaven or some other afterlife or just that he exists in the universe, but I need to–"

"He is, Amelia. Whether you believe or not. He's somewhere. He's a part of you, and you never lose that. Even if he's not physically here. Samuel's a part of me. And yes, I believe in Heaven, and angels, and that he's somewhere watching over me. I believe God is taking care of him, like he does everyone. But I also know that no matter what, he's my son, and he always exists here with me. We're moms, and we carry that with us wherever we go."

A half-smile tugged at Amelia's lips, and she nodded. "I know. I just– I want to see him again one day." Tears welled in her eyes, though she fought to blink them back. "I miss him."

"You will. We both will."

"You really believe that?"

"I do. And it is the _only_ thing that's gotten me through," April admitted.

"Me too. I want to be someone he would be proud to call his mom."

"Believe me, I get that. Why do you think I kept signing up for tours? Because I felt like I was really making a difference – like I was doing something important. Sure, there was danger and excitement, too, but that's not– That was just a distraction. It's not what matters."

The brunette smiled, faint but genuine. "Trust me, if he's seen the badass trauma superhero you've become, Samuel is _super_ proud of you."

"Thanks, Amelia," April replied, her own lips curling upward ever-so-slightly as she reached over to lay a hand on the other's arm. "Chris would be proud of you, too. I know it."

"Thanks," came the muttered response, eyes averting once more.

"Hey, and if you ever need someone–"

"Same for you, Kepner," Amelia nodded. Sniffing, the neurosurgeon got to her feet. "I, um– I should probably– I have a surgery tonight. I should be preparing for that," she said, gesturing toward the door.

"Yeah. I should probably check in the trauma center before chaos takes over," she agreed, stepping out from the pew and heading toward the door.

"April–" Amelia paused. "I, um– Thank you. For this. I just–"

"Anytime."


End file.
